Karen Templeton - What A Man's Gotta Do

She blushed, nodded, then slid her feet into a pair of wooden clogs by the door. “The entrance is in the back,” she said, yanking open the front door. When he glanced at the stairs right there in the hallway, she simply said, “Blocked off,” and left it at that.

And here Mala had thought she was immune to things like slow, sexy smiles and the pungent, spicy scent of fresh-out-of-the-cold males.

Not to mention the sight of soft, worn jeans molding to hard, lean thighs.

Ai-yi-yi.

The thin crust of snow crunched underfoot as she led Eddie wordlessly around to the side, then up the wooden stairs leading to the apartment.

The key stuck.

“It does that when it’s humid,” she said under her breath, wondering, just as the damn lock finally gave way and the door wratched open, why every other sentence out of her mouth these days seemed to be an apology. She flicked on the living room’s overhead light, stepping well out of the range of Eddie’s pheromones as he followed her inside. She cringed at the faint tang of old pizza and stale beer still hovering in the air, even though she’d cleaned up the worst of the mess more than a week ago.

“If the lock gets to be too much of a hassle,” she said, “let me know. I’ll change it out.”

His face remained expressionless as he took in the room. She clutched the coffee mug to her chest, hoping the warmth would dissolve the strange knot that had suddenly taken root smack in the center of her rib cage. Her nerves lurched, sending her heart rate into overdrive. “Like I said, it’s not the Hilton.”

To say the least. Bare, white walls which needed another coat of paint, she noted. Beige industrial grade carpet. Ivory JCPenney drapes over the two large windows. The earthtone tweed sofa and two equally colorless armchairs had been in her parents’ den, once upon a time; Mala had scrounged the coffee table, mismatched end tables and black bookcase from yard sales, picked up the plain tan ginger jar lamps at Target. Not shabby—she’d seen shabby, this wasn’t it—just basic. And about as personal as a dentist’s office.

“Feel free to hang pictures or whatever, make it feel more like home.”

No comment. Just the buzz from that sharp blue gaze, silently taking everything in over the rim of the mug as he sipped his coffee. Mala swiped her hair behind her ear.

“Um, kitchen’s over there.” She pointed to the far end of the room where, behind a Formica-topped bar, the secondhand refrigerator sulked in the shadows. The living room light reflected dully off the grease-caked, glass-paned cabinets: she made a mental note to buy more Windex. Her mother would have a cow if she knew Mala was actually showing someone the place in the condition it was in. “I guess what they must’ve done was knock out a wall between the master bedroom and one of the smaller ones to make the kitchen area and living room, leaving the bedroom and bath the way they were.”

The hair on the backs of her arms stirred. She glanced over, caught Eddie watching her, his gaze steady, unnerving in its opaqueness, much more unnerving in its overt sexual interest. Over a frisson of alarm, she squatted, grimacing at some stain or other on the carpeting. Between his silence and his staring and her nerves, she was about to go nuts.

“Why do you keep looking at me?” she said to the stain.

“Sorry,” he said. Mala looked up. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, as much as his features had somehow softened. “Didn’t realize I was.” Then he added, “I just would’ve thought you’d be used to having men gawking at you.”

The slight tinge of humor in his words threatened to rattle her even more, especially because she realized he wasn’t making fun of her. She stood, her cheeks burning, then crossed to the empty bookcase, yanking a tissue out of her sweater pocket to wipe down the filthy top shelf.

“Like I said, I haven’t had a chance to clean, so it looks a little woebegone at the moment. But it’s a nice place when it’s fixed up. There’s lots of light in here during the day, and everything works. I’m afraid you’re at my mercy for heat, since the thermostat’s downstairs and I tend to think there’s nothing wrong with having to wear a sweater indoors in the middle of winter, but it’s automatic, on at six-thirty, off at ten. And the apartment has its own electric meter, so I’ll be passing along that bill to you separately—”

His chuckle caught her up short. She turned, her breath hitching in her throat at the sight of the smile crinkling his eyes. If he’d smiled at her like that when they’d been back in school…well, let’s just say her virtue might have gone by the side of the road long before it actually did.

“Now I know where your daughter gets it,” he said.

“Gets what?”

He held up his hand, miming nonstop talking.

She decided it wasn’t worth taking offense. “You should meet my mother,” she said, only to silently add, No, you shouldn’t as she started down the hall. “Bedroom and bath are right down here…”

“What’d he do to you?”

Mala turned, startled. “Who?”

“Your husband.”

“What makes you think—”

“You weren’t like this before. Nervous, I mean. Like you’re about to break.”

On second thought, things were a lot better when he wasn’t talking. “How would you know what I was like? You wouldn’t even speak to me back then.”

“Don’t always have to converse with somebody to know about them. In fact, not talking makes it easier to watch. And listen. See things about folks maybe they can’t always see for themselves.”

Anger, apprehension, curiosity all spurted through her. “And what is it you think you see about me?”

“I’m not sure. Someone who’s lost sight of who she is, maybe.”

The gentleness in his voice, more unexpected than the words themselves, brought a sharp, hard lump to her throat. For three years, she’d refused to let herself feel vulnerable. In the space of a few minutes, this man—this stranger—threatened to destroy all her hard work.

Her fingers tightened around the handle of her mug. “Do you make it a habit of going around analyzing people without being asked?”

He shook his head, his expression serious. Genuinely concerned. “No, ma’am. Not at all.”

“Then why do I rate?”

“Because it burns my butt to see how much you’ve changed,” he said simply, softly, waving the cup in her direction. “That the girl who didn’t seem to have a care in the world now seems like she’s taken on all of ’em.”

She laughed, although that was the last thing she felt like doing. “I’m twenty years older than I was then. I’m a divorcée with two kids and my own business. I have bills out the wazoo, a car that needs coaxing every morning to get going and parents who worry about me far more than they should be worrying about someone this close to forty. So, yeah, I guess I’ve got a little more on my plate than worrying about acing my trig exam or how many balloons to order for the senior prom.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Zing went her heart, thudding and tripping inside her chest. “I told you,” she said quietly, desperately, scrabbling away from treacherous ground, “I’m just looking for a tenant. Not a buddy. Or…” She shut her eyes, dragged the unsaid out into the open. “Or anything else.”

“Anything else?” he drawled on a slow, knowing grin.

Embarrassment heated her cheeks. Cripes, she was more out of the loop than she thought. “I’m sorry. I have no idea where that came from—”

“It came right from where you thought it came from,” he said, his voice low and warm and tired-rough. “From me.”

Oh, dear God.